


The Indifferent Flame

by deactivatedaio



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:27:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22647130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deactivatedaio/pseuds/deactivatedaio
Summary: The continuing adventures of one Meare Hawke (much to her displeasure) and her pirate girlfriend, Isabela.When they aren’t charming idiots out of their ill-gotten gains or scheming about ways to help an unhappy wife escape from her husband (and occasionally, the reverse), they enjoy picking each other up in taverns.But their favorite thing to do together - and something they don’t have a lot of time for, thanks to the twist of fate that made Hawke a household name - is sit on a pier, any pier, with one’s head on the other’s shoulder, and just listen to the waves. No matter how far out the tide goes, or how choppy the water, it always comes back, always calms, just like life.(art by @dyalavellan on tumblr!)
Relationships: Female Hawke/Isabela, Hawke/Isabela (Dragon Age)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	1. Dolos

“I’d like to buy a chicken.”

“A chicken?” replied the merchant, a stout man with a stringy black beard and tiny, sharp brown eyes set below a heavy brow in a ruddy face.

“Yes, please.”

Isabela stood politely before him, nonchalantly bearing his squinting scrutiny. Dusk was falling around the double-wide pier, and foot traffic to the normally busy Ferelden shipping port had begun to redirect deeper into the city’s red-light district.

Around the two of them stood a motley of crates and cargo containers. Large and small, well-crafted and shoddy, all of which were unmarked or showed signs of carefully-wrought “damage”. The hallmarks of the black market.

The merchant crossed thick arms and frowned. “Don’t got any chickens here.”

“Really? I could have sworn I heard clucking from that big crate over there,” Bela pointed, drawing the man’s attention over his shoulder. He pivoted, peering back into a shadowy corner where merchandise was stacked haphazardly, and Bela coughed loudly.

Around the other side of the pier, Meare Hawke crouched, waiting still and silent in her oil-rubbed leather and dark iron garb. At the signal, she pulled off her helmet, freeing a shock of auburn hair that fell in unruly mass down one side of her face to her chin, the other half of the choppy waves having been shorn close to her skull. When working, Meare kept her face covered, since her fair complexion sprinkled with freckles and her round green eyes tended not to convey the proper amount of intimidation. Only a sharp jaw and long, thin scar down one cheek marred an otherwise wholly undesirable girlish face, plain and unremarkable.

But for what came next, she knew she'd need to be unmasked, appearing reassuring and definitely not a guard. Meare gingerly pried a large wooden slat off of a crate, taking care to make as little noise as possible. Inside, three people crouched, blinking lethargically at the beam of weak light.

“Stay quiet and squeeze through. Don’t run until I say so. Understand?” Meare searched the faces of the two women and one man, each looking as haggard and empty as expected. They’d probably been in that crate for days.

One nodded, and with painful slowness, they shimmied through the narrow opening. Meare replaced the slat as best she could, touching a pale finger to her lips. And then they waited, frozen low to the ground, until Meare heard Bela’s second signal.

“If you haven’t got any chickens then, what about a goose? I do like a good goose,” Bela drawled, a liquid smile spreading across her face.

The merchant didn’t seem phased by the innuendo, or perhaps, missed it completely. “No geese.”

“Too bad. If you had, you would have very briefly been a very happy man.” Bela stepped around the crate, inspecting it. “What is in here, anyway?”

“Crafting materials.”

“Oh? Of what sort?”

“Why do you want to know?” Patience wearing thin, the merchant began to turn back to his low table, and Bela quickly caught his arm.

“Ah, because I want to buy them? All of them. Yes, I just came into a large, um, inheritance,” she continued, gesturing elegantly, drawing the merchant’s attention back to the cargo once more. “If you open it up, perhaps I can take a quick look? See what you have on offer? For my… jewelry shop?”

The man shrugged a shoulder and grabbed a large crowbar. Bela thumped a fist on the crate.

He stared at her. She grinned back. 

“Very sturdy.”

While Bela chatted mindlessly at the merchant as he pried open the crate, Meare motioned for the others to follow her around the other side of the pier. Soon, they were unable to hear or see Bela and the merchant, so Meare stood, leading the small group through a winding corridor.

“Now, go four docks that way, and find the boat with the green pennant. It’ll look like this,” Meare proffered a piece of paper embossed with the Hawke seal. “Give this to the man on board. He’ll see you safely out of the city, give you each some coin and some food and clothing.”

One of the women, a slip of a thing with a tumble of blonde hair and a split lip, stared at the paper in her hands. When she looked up at Meare, her clouded brown eyes held equal parts distrust and disbelief.

“Why?” Her voice cracked.

Meare only sighed. “Because. You’re not things. You’re people. If I didn’t take the job to transport you, someone else would have. Someone worse. I’ve seen what happens, and I don’t like it.” Receiving only confused, frightened glances in reply, Meare stopped back. They were in shock. There was no getting through to them, not right now. “Just go, alright? Before we all get caught?”

No further incentive was needed. The trio dashed away, their forms dissolving into the settling dusk

Retracing her steps, Meare reclined against a dirty brick wall and waited for Bela to wrap up, fiddling idly with the long chain that draped between the arch of her ear and the lobe.

“You don’t have any stormheart?”

“What I have is what I have,” the merchant returned gruffly. Isabela’s long-suffering sigh carried, drawing a smile from Meare. Never passed up an opportunity to wax dramatic, that one.

“That’s a pity, truly. It’s really what I need most. Oh well. Thank you for your time.”

As the merchant grumbled in irritation, Bela trotted around the corner to where Meare stood. 

“Did you get them, then?”

“I did.”

“Excellent!” Bela exclaimed, winding her arm through Meare’s. “Drinks?”

Meare nodded emphatically. “Drinks.”

They sauntered toward the local tavern, a dingy establishment tucked between two buildings and adorned with a sign bearing a comically large-breasted woman holding - for whatever unfathomable reason - a small frog.

Meare reached for the door. A shouted curse rang off the walls behind them.

“Shit,” Meare looked at Bela, who grimaced. “Think we can outrun him?”

Bela scowled deeper. “I don’t, particularly.”

They turned down an alley next to the tavern. Meare scanned the walls for places they could climb in, hide. Nothing. Then, her eyes alighted onto a few stacked barrels that clearly once held mead or ale. She grinned.

“What exactly are you doing? You’re going to get us caught,” Bela began, but Meare simply sprawled over the barrels, arms and legs draped wide.

“Come sit by me.” At Bela’s incredulous stare, Meare rolled her eyes. “Trust me, pretty. Come sit on this side.” She patted the lower barrel to her right.

Bela acquiesced, the cursing becoming louder as the now-furious merchant got closer.

“Now, take off your scarf, and put your face in my lap.”

“What?”

Meare took the scarf that Bela used to keep her hair back and tied it instead around her lower face and neck. Then she untied her helmet from where it hung at her hip and shoved it back on, tucking her hair beneath. “Put your face in my crotch and pretend you’re busying yourself with my gentlemanly charms. You’ve had enough practice to be able to fake it convincingly.”

Bela snorted a laugh. “You’re not wrong. It’s a good thing I like you so much or I’d ask for at least a few drinks first.” She bent at the waist and laughed into Meare’s lower stomach. Meare grinned, hunching her shoulders forward, grateful for once that she had few curves to identify her as a woman and shoulders broad enough to pass as a lanky youth. This wasn’t the first time she’d done so. It probably wouldn’t be the last.

“It’s a good thing you love me, you mean. And I’ll buy you as many drinks as you like. After.”

Bela’s reply was muffled. “That’s what they all say.”

Shouting, the merchant strode past their alleyway. He paused at the mouth. 

“Hey you! Boy! You seen a pirate-looking bitch around here? Dark skin, dark hair?”

Meare pitched her voice low and grunted dismissively. “No. Get lost.”

Thankfully, night had fallen, and there wasn’t enough light for the merchant to see anything other than the top of Bela’s head, bobbing slightly, the rest of her body hidden by the other side of Meare’s torso.

A whisper floated up to Meare, who was watching out of the corner of her eye as the merchant peered into the alley. Unable to decipher it, Meare gently tugged a lock of Bela’s hair. 

“Groan.”

“What?” Meare hissed. Why wouldn’t the man leave already? Why did he have to stand exactly there to look around stupidly?

Bela pressed her face against the inside curve of Meare’s thigh. And then she bit down. Hard.

“Ungh!”

The loud grunt seemed to jar the merchant into motion. “Pardon me,” he mumbled, ambling quickly away. Bela lifted her head, and the two of them stayed very still until his footsteps faded.

Once they had, Meare ripped the fabric away from her face, pulling off her helmet and securing it at her hip. She shot Bela a glare. “That hurt! What was that for?”

“You needed to make an appropriately masculine sound of pleasure. I did what I had to do.” Bela tied her hair back once more, and the two of them exited the alley.

“That’s only fun when I ask for it,” Meare muttered, rubbing her palm on her thigh. Bela snickered.

“Mm. Your breeches taste terrible.” Bela glanced askance at Meare, still pouting into middle-distance and rubbing her leg.

Catching her arm, Bela halted Meare mid-step, coming to stand in front of her. She slid her arms around Meare’s neck with a cajoling smile, tilting her face up, bringing her mouth barely an inch away from Meare’s. “I can always make it up to you,” Bela purred gently, and Meare wound her arms around Bela’s waist. It was an old trick by now, but one that always worked, and they both knew it. Meare’s frown softened.

“You definitely can. And should. Later.”

“Maybe a little bit now?”

Meare couldn’t help but smile. “A little.”

That was all it took for Bela to rise on her toes and close the distance between them, sealing their mouths together with a small hum of success. Meare traced Bela’s lips with her tongue, easing it open, and for more than a few moments, they stayed tangled together, exploring familiar tastes and textures and welcoming heat.

Bela came up for air first. “You taste a lot better than your breeches,” she said, and Meare laughed.

Twining their fingers together, they parted, again making their way back through the city.

They walked in companionable quiet for a while, interlocked hands swinging between them. Happily, Bela’s ship was no longer docked - the kidnapped trio must have boarded. They had escaped.

“We need to get at least a few towns away. No doubt he’ll be looking for his escaped slaves, and me, anywhere within riding distance,” Bela eventually commented, and Meare shrugged a shoulder.

“Probably. I saw a pretty well-stocked stable a few blocks from the city gates when we arrived. Steal a horse with me?”

Batting her eyelashes, Bela glanced up at Meare with feigned adoration. “You always know just what a girl likes to hear.”

“I know what you like to hear, you mean.”

“And I’m the only girl who matters.”

Pressing a kiss to Bela’s hair, Meare smiled, breathing in the scent of salt and spice and something mysteriously floral. it smelled like joy. Nothing, no one, would ever - or had ever - made Meare quite so happy. But she just couldn’t resist such a perfect opportunity. “At least, as far as you know.”

Releasing Bela’s hand, Meare shot off, grinning over her shoulder as she ran. With a laugh, Bela gave chase, and they both disappeared into the dark. 


	2. Melpomene

The parchment crumpled in her grip, creases radiating up from the corner to distort the neatly-inked words. The looping handwriting was familiar, unexpected, and unwanted. Two sentences, and Meare’s already unsteady foundation shifted, sending her off-balance.

_‘We need your help, but I wish we didn’t._

_Please come to Skyhold as soon as you can.’_

Meare clenched her teeth, a muscle in her jaw flexing. Why would he ask this of her? He knew she wanted nothing more to do with heroism. He knew what she’d lost.

But she had no choice. The only reason Varric would ever have reached out was because it was life-or-death, and he truly believed she’d be able to weight the scales more heavily in favor of life.

Bela was not pleased. Ever since Meare had shown her the letter, Bela had been sulking in dark silence, drinking what appeared to be all the wine in their small room, refusing to look Meare in the eye.

“Please, Bela,” Meare tossed the wrinkled missive to the floor, knelt beside Bela’s chair. “Just let me go. You don’t have to come with me. But I have to go, and I can’t leave like this.”

 _Especially if I don’t know I’ll make it back_ , Meare thought, knowing Bela would still hear the unsaid words.

Bela scooted around in her chair, leaving Meare staring at her tensed shoulders. Meare sighed. She took hold of the arm of the chair, scooted it toward her a little. The wine Bela held sloshed.

“Bela.”

She only grunted in response.

“Bela, please. Just… yell at me. I can’t go if you won’t even look at me.”

“Good. Don’t.”

Meare rested her forehead against Bela’s thigh, squeezing her eyes shut. A pit had opened up somewhere under her ribs, and Meare felt like her heart and lungs were being sucked into some deep abyss.

“I have to.”

“No you don’t. You don’t!” Bela’s head swung around, and Meare felt the force of her stare but didn’t lift her head. She stayed crouched at Bela’s side, face pressed against the crook where thigh met hip, and breathed in the perfume of her skin.

Bela continued, voice raising in pitch and intensity as she did. “You don’t have to go anywhere or do anything! Haven’t you done enough? Lost enough? It can’t always be up to you to wander in and out of mortal peril simply because they need a champion. Let someone else be the hero!” Bela’s voice cracked, and Meare finally looked up, staring into the prettiest eyes she’d ever seen, red-rimmed and terrified though they were.

“Why does it always have to be you?” Bela’s voice was a whisper.

“I don’t know. But it does.”

Setting the bottle of wine down, Bela took Meare’s face in both hands. She pulled her up, stroked her cheekbones with her thumbs, following the scattered trail of freckles that Meare hated.

“I hate this,” she said simply, and Meare felt a sob collecting in her throat. It struggled painfully to break free, but she swallowed it.

“Me too.”

“You’ll come back soon, right? If I let you leave, you’ll be back before I have a chance to get into too much trouble without you?”

Bela was trying to lighten her tone, but the playful lilt only made Meare want to cry more than she already did.

“Yeah. Of course I will. Can’t let you have all the fun.” Her vice was thick with unshed tears.

Bela leaned down, pressing her lips against Meare’s, and Meare wound her arms around Bela’s waist. For a long time they stayed that way, Meare obeisant and reverent before her very own idol, Bela’s touch like benediction that would assure good fortune. When Meare finally stood, drawing Bela up with her, they spent many more minutes saying goodbye without words.

Because if it was to be their last goodbye, Meare wanted to remember it until she lost the ability to remember at all.


	3. Prometheus

It hurt to inhale; it hurt to keep her eyes open; it even hurt to move her fingers. So as she stood, staring over the gray-green sea and trying not to die slowly from hypothermia, Meare solemnly vowed to never again visit Weisshaupt.

She stomped her booted feet and pulled her not-heavy-enough cloak around her shoulders, squinting at the horizon. Isabela was supposed to have arrived by now. Almost three weeks prior, Meare had received word from where Bela waited in Antiva, assuring her that Bela not only found a ship willing to sail north to the mouth of the Latenfluss river where it emptied into the ocean, but that they were already preparing to leave. They were to have arrived last night.

Isabela had never been one to sit idle for long.

But that begged the question - where in Andraste’s name was she?

Meare flexed her fingers, then scrubbed her hands over her face. Even though she had only been left at the pier less than an hour earlier, winter in the Anderfels struck quick and unforgiving. She had a heavy hat pulled low over her ears, but they were still cold. Her chin-length hair, cropped close on one side, trapped no additional body heat. One stray lock, in a color that could only be described as “violently auburn”, rested on her pale, freckled cheekbone. She wasted no energy to brush it out of her eyes, which were muddy green on a good day, but in the wan winter sun appeared almost brown.

Again, Meare stomped her feet, encouraging blood flow to the frozen appendages, wishing she’d been graced with any kind of curves if only for the additional warmth they would provide. Again, she scanned the horizon. And there, finally, she spotted a dark shape.

“Thank the Maker,” her whispered prayer floated in a white cloud into the frigid air, and soon enough, the ship’s silhouette revealed itself.

It was small, it was shabby, but it was seaworthy and that’s all that mattered to Meare. Walking back and forth along the dock, she waited until it reached her. Before the first rope was tossed over the side, a figure leaped from the deck, landing with an almost-graceful thud against the ancient wooden pier.

Suddenly, Meare was overtaken by clutching arms and seeking mouth and sound and weight and body, all impossibly soft and warm. She wrapped the invader in a tight embrace, buried her face in dark hair, and focused on the conversation already in progress.

“— and I was so upset with you! You didn’t even come see me before you hauled off to this absolute wasteland!” Bela ranted, alternating words between the press of her lips to the sliver of skin exposed at Meare’s throat. 

“Sorry,” Meare’s reply was muffled against Bela’s hair, and Bela leaned away far enough to smack her shoulder. Thankfully, her insulated leather armor protected her from the assault.

“I had to rely on Varric - Varric! - to give me a report of what you’d been up to at Skyhold, and who knows how accurate that was.” The boat, now fully docked, dropped a plank so they could board. Meare ascended, Bela following closely behind. “He said you’d been all over creation, even into the Fade. For once I’m glad he’s such a liar when it comes to you.” She continued, as Meare silently wove her way across the deck, shoving open the door to the area below. 

Only once Bela followed her in, the door behind her closing, did Meare turn. She regarded Bela, who frowned at the unusually serious expression.

This would not go well.

“He told no lies. I was in the Fade.”

Bela froze. Her golden eyes narrowed, hyper-focused on Meare’s. “What?”

Meare sighed and began stripping off layers of armor, tossing them onto a narrow bunk as she explained. “Whatever he told you? Likely true. Even the most unbelievable parts. Definitely the most unbelievable parts, actually.” She sat, tugging at her boots. Bela remained where she stood, just inside the closed door, arms crossed and brow furrowed. 

“The Fade?”

The first boot came off and landed with a thunk. “Yes.”

Bela stepped toward her, hands on hips, staring down at her with an expression now more concerned than angry. “The demon?”

“That, too.” Another thunk, and the second boot hit the floor. Meare tugged off her breeches, which were thawing quickly into a sodden mess from the knee-down, and pulled the blanket from the cot around her. She huddled inside it, knees up to her chest, waiting for the question she knew was inevitable. 

“Alistair?”

Meare nodded. Bela sat. Then, she opened the blanket, insinuated herself inside it, and curled around Meare’s side, tilting her head onto Meare’s shoulder.

Her words were barely more than a whisper, heavy with emotion. 

“I’m so, so sorry.”

Meare stared at the floor. “It was almost me.”

Bela scooted closer, arms going around Meare’s waist. “But it wasn’t.”

“But it could have been.”

Levering herself up, Bela straddled Meare’s lap, taking her face forcefully between both hands. Her fingers splayed, thumbs stroking Meare’s cheekbones tenderly, but her gaze was fierce. 

“It wasn’t.”

With that pronouncement, Bela claimed Meare’s mouth like it held the secret to eternal life and she was a woman dying. Her tongue traced the seam of Meare’s lips and broke through them, and it tasted of treacle and whiskey. Meare met her, stroke for stroke, one hand fisted in Bela’s hair and the other clinging to the fabric at her back, and when they finally broke away, they were both panting.

A pause, a beat of stillness that lasted only a second, and then everything was frenzy. Hands grabbed and pulled fabric away from skin, teeth caught sensitive flesh and drew gasps, bodies twisted and tangled until Meare found herself pinned.

When Bela’s graceful, seeking fingers found her core, slid over and into her, Meare moaned and arched. Bela’s laugh of triumph was breathless, and as her palm pressed and her hand rocked a steady cadence, she kept herself far enough away that Meare couldn’t pull her down, couldn’t do anything but writhe and groan under her ministrations. 

“Bela, please.” Her request was almost a whimper, but Bela only grinned.

“I missed your heat, your scent, your texture.” Bela rocked her hips, pressing the apex of her thighs against Meare’s leg. The sound she made might have been a purr. “And you’re here, with me, where you belong.”

Meare could only groan, the edge of pleasure sharpening.

At the sound, Bela withdrew her hand, chuckling at Meare’s wordless protest. Leaning forward, Bela pressed an open kiss to Meare’s breast, nipping at the skin. “Tell me what you missed, lovely.”

Meare wriggled, pressing one hand to Bela’s low back, inching her forward. “You. I missed you.”

Bela tilted her hips, but held the intimate contact Meare craved out of reach. “What about me?”

Her eyes caught Bela’s, and with all the sincerity she possessed, Meare answered. 

“Everything.”

It was the correct answer. It was also the most honest one Meare had ever given. Bela, knowing that, finally locked her legs with Meare’s, pressing her pelvis down, locking the juncture of their thighs together with a long, satisfied sigh.

Then she began to move, and Meare lost all sense of anything except her. Fire built between them, and each stoked it in the other with hips and hands, until they both flared out, bright, hot, and alive.

Many minutes later, Bela lifted her head from where it lay on Meare’s chest, her hand resting possessively on Meare’s bare stomach. Relaxed for the first time in months, Meare glanced up, and returned the small smile.

“You’re looking pretty pleased with yourself,” Meare said, and Bela’s smirk widened.

“That depends.” She tugged the blanket up over both of their bodies, and drew a fingertip down Meare’s belly. She shivered in response. “Cold?”

“No,” Meare answered, gathering Isabela close, twirling a loose coil of dark hair around her finger idly. “In fact, for the first time since I left for Skyhold, I’m finally warm.”

Bela settled against Meare’s body, resting her head once more. Meare’s eyes fluttered closed, her fingers still tangled in Isabela’s hair, holding tight to the woman she loved.


	4. Limos

Clambering onto the table with a shouted curse, Isabela grabbed Meare by the arm and tugged her down, dragging her back to the ground despite a good amount of thrashing and swearing from the very-drunk, very-pissed-off redhead.

“Do you even know what subtle means?” Isabela hissed into Meare’s ear, and Meare wrenched her arm away.

“I do! I just don’t care. He’s an ass. So is she! They deserved my beer in their face! More, if they want it!” Meare ranted over her shoulder as Bela dragged her past side-eye stares from patrons and at least one gentleman who applauded as they walked by.

Bela rounded the bar, holding firm to Meare’s wrist, though Meare was beginning to cease struggling and was, instead, plodding petulantly after her.

The bartender shot Bela a confused glance. Bela scowled darkly, and the bartender held up his hands in surrender. Bela shoved Meare through the door that led out back, followed her, and blockaded the door - and the only exit out of the narrow back-alley - with her body.

“The goal here, my sweet, darling Hawke,” Bela forced out through gritted teeth, “was for me to pickpocket the key to their storeroom while you distracted them with cards, drink, and flattery.”

Meare leaned heavily against the filthy brick wall of the building, crossed her arms, and closed her eyes. Her skin took on a vaguely greenish tint. Bela held her ground, but leaned back a little in case… well. In case.

“Urgh,” Meare replied, and took a deep, steadying breath. Bela just waited, fists on her hips, legs spread, looking for anything like a pirate on the bow of her ship. Under other circumstances, Meare would appraise her thoroughly, but right now, it was all she could to do keep her drink down. Never again, Meare thought weakly to herself. Never again would she try to out-drink an Orlesian.

“What happened in there, Meare? I didn’t even have time to walk around the table, much less get my hand in her pants, before you had doused them in ale and chased them off.”

Meare pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. “Oh, Maker, I’m going to be sick.”

“You’ll be sicker when I’m through if you don’t answer me.”

“Bela.” The name came out as a whine, and Meare opened her eyes, arms falling heavily to her sides. “I’m sorry, okay? Is that what you want to hear? I’m. Sorry.”

“No you aren’t. Now we won’t get that key. We won’t break into the storehouse. We won’t get any of the goods Varric assured me had been rightly stolen from his ports.” Bela’s words, like bolts from Bianca, hit Meare just as hard in-between the eyes as the real thing - and caused as much pain.

“Bela, please, have mercy.”

“And we won’t get the reward! You know he would have given us so much more than he would some other slouch. Meare! Meare, look at me!”

Face again hidden in her hands, head hung, Meare groaned. Her voice was muffled. “I couldn’t do it, okay? They just… and then, she said… and he laughed…”

Bela’s scowl deepened. “Pardon me? What are you on about?”

Meare sighed loudly and tore her hands from her face. She glared at Bela. “They deserved it. I couldn’t just sit there and… and… let them say those things.”

“What things?”

Meare turned away, staring angrily at the shadowed ground in the corner that may or may not have been piss. “They’d seen us earlier, when we were in the marketplace. They called you nasty things, which yeah, usually tick me off, but then the woman went too far.” Meare glanced askance at Bela, whose face had softened somewhat. “She went way, way too far. I won’t repeat it, Bela, but it was vile. And when her… whoever he was just laughed? I couldn’t stop myself. My hand moved before my brain caught up with it, and then they were yelling and I was yelling and I was already so, so drunk.”

Bela studied Meare, who just stood listlessly against the wall and waited. Then she pointed a finger at Meare.

“You owe me a hell of a lot of coin, Meare Hawke.”

Meare nodded solemnly, then winced as the motion brought her headache back to the forefront of her attention. “Yeah.”

Bela held out both arms. “Well come here. Let’s get you inside and in bed.”

Meare’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh?”

“Not that kind of bed. You’re in no state.”

Moving into Bela’s embrace, Meare nuzzled her hair, wrapped her arms loosely around Bela’s waist. “Give me an hour and I will be.”

On a short laugh, Bela guided Meare back into the tavern. “Not until you make up for all the gold I just missed out on.”

“Lucky for me,” Meare said, swaying only slightly on her feet as she walked, still holding to Bela’s midsection loosely with one arm, “I’m good for it.”

\---

“Ouch! Shit.” A droplet of blood welled crimson on the pad of her thumb, and Meare glared at it as though she could intimidate it back into her body. Jabbing the long, hooked needle through the ragged tear in her leather gauntlet, Meare curled her fingers protectively into themselves as she worked, trying and failing to stay focused on the stitches.

Somewhere out there, Isabela might be injured, cornered by thugs or guards or both, and Meare was just sitting in a cramped room in a shitty nn on the edge of town, waiting. The mining town lay just inside Starkhaven’s borders, and though Meare could very easily have called on the hospitality of an old friend and get some nicer accommodations, she would also have had to explain why Isabela was sneaking out in the middle of the night to rob a shipping yard of all its coin.

Three weeks earlier, Meare had royally screwed up a job. She was supposed to have distracted two marks while Bela pickpocketed their warehouse key, and then they both would have looted goods that would have otherwise ended up on the black market, returning them to their rightful owners for a healthy reward.

Unfortunately, Meare made two mistakes: she let their vicious insults about Bela get under her skin, and she tried to outdrink an Orlesian. Suffice to say, the evening culminated in no key, no reward, and no… well, anything else Meare enjoyed.

In her momentary distraction, the needle in her hands slipped, stabbing painfully into the side of her index finger this time. Meare sucked on it briefly and clenched her teeth.

There hadn’t been “anything else” since, either. They’d tracked the dealers of the stolen goods to Starkhaven but had been too late to liberate the goods. Instead, they figured they’d steal the profits, returning some of it, keeping the rest as payment for services rendered. And the entire time, Bela had consented only to sleep next to Meare, to share her bed in the purest - and least stimulating - sense of the word, and nothing more. Even only a few hours earlier, while Bela prepared to sneak into the shipyard alone, she gave Meare a single chaste kiss on the mouth and then was gone.

If she died, Meare was going to be so, so pissed.

A day before, Meare had sweet-talked the information about the money out of one of its guards. Since the town was so small, however, there was no way for her to make her way to the stockyard unrecognized, leaving Bela to undertake the task alone.

And she’d been gone too long. The sun would rise soon, and if she wasn’t out of there, she’d be caught. Even if Meare could get word to Sebastien for leniency, it likely wouldn’t come in time, not before… before…

“Andraste’s tits!” The needle dug into Meare’s palm. She hurled it, along with the gauntlet and string, at the wall across from her as hard as she could, and then flopped back on the bed, legs dangling off the side.

The ceiling revealed no secrets. All was very, very quiet.

Meare hated the quiet.

She got up, started to pace. Resisted the urge to kick the single, depressing dresser in the corner for fear it may collapse. Then, she glanced out the window, watched the stars blink out one by one, and swallowed against a sick wave of jittery anxiety.

Footsteps outside the door heralded Bela’s arrival, and Meare had crossed the small room and swung it open before Bela had grasped the handle.

Bela stood with a large burlap sack in one hand, her face tired and her shoulders slumped.

“Well, I got it.”

She stalked in, tossed the bag on the dresser with a metallic jangle. Then she plopped onto the bed and began stripping off the all-black getup that covered her from her feet to her fingertips.

Meare looked from the bag to the woman on her bed, tightened her fingers into fists at her sides. “And it went… okay? No surprises?”

Bela untied tall boots, shimmied out of tight breeches. “More or less. There were definitely five guards, not four, so that was a little bit of a surprise. Seemed like a lot for one lowly shipping yard, but when I saw the take they were hiding, it made sense.” Tugging off her long-sleeved tunic, Bela studied her hands, flexing one. The knuckles were scuffed. “I only had to knock out one of them - the rest were, ah… distracted.”

Meare approached, took Bela’s injured hand in hers. “Distracted how?”

Smirking, Bela produced a book of matches from her cleavage, brandished it. “I set a fire!” Meare choked on a laugh and Bela shrugged, tossing the matches aside. “A small one. Nothing too dangerous. They put it out.”

“Only a small one, she says, in a shipyard full of wooden cargo containers.”

“Hey, now. I can handle a little heat.” Bela’s smirk widened into a full-fledged grin, and Meare felt it as potently as any flame.

Straddling Bela’s lap, Meare wrapped arms and legs about her, buried her face in Bela’s neck, and nuzzled at the delicate skin there. For a moment she hid her face in the gentle curve between neck and shoulder, Bela holding loosely to her waist.

Finally, the worry that had collected heavy in her stomach began to dissipate. “Mhm. You smell like smoke, pretty.”

“Oh, that? That’s just my natural musk.”

Meare lifted her head on a snort. “Do not ever, ever say those words in that order again.”

When Bela laughed, Meare caught her mouth, tasted the mirth on her tongue. Lifting her head, Meare drew her thumb across Bela’s lower lip, tilted her head to the side.

“So, does this make up for me ruining the job back in Tantervale?”

Bela caught Meare’s wrist, rubbed gently at the red mark left behind by the needle’s earlier disobedience. “Maybe. That depends on how much is in the bag.”

“Bela, come on. I’m  _ injured _ .”

“Whose fault is that, again? No one forced you to ignore your mother’s sewing lessons, love.”

“Be that as it may, I’m also dying. I miss you.” Very slowly, Meare stroked her hands down until they rested high on Bela’s ribcage, just under her breasts. The thin chemise that stood between Meare’s palms and Bela’s skin was not enough to obscure the texture of flesh and bone, to hide the heat from her body as Meare appreciatively - and, she hoped, persuasively - brushed her fingers back and forth. “I know you miss me.”

“Do I really?” Bela drawled, but Meare felt her shift, leaning back just enough so Meare could more closely fit their hips together. As Bela began tugging at Meare’s rough shirt, pulling it free of her trousers, Meare’s lips twitched into a tiny, triumphant smile.

Then she again hid her face in Bela’s neck, but this time, teeth caught skin - and then, there was no hiding for either of them until well after the sun came up.


End file.
